


Birthday Irises

by the_wordbutler



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-18
Updated: 2012-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-12 09:45:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wordbutler/pseuds/the_wordbutler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Clint buys a birthday present.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birthday Irises

“Now _those_ are a lovely choice,” says the lady behind the counter.

 

Clint hates florist shops.  They’re always cluttered, claustrophobic little holes-in-the-wall with no room to move.  Since he walked in, he’s been scratched by two different oversized rose arrangements, goosed by a fern, French-kissed by a bunch of baby’s breath, and that’s just the awkward stuff.  Still, a promise’s a promise, even if it’s a stupid promise he regrets around this time every year, and he sets the bouquet of purple irises down on the counter.

 

“Thanks,” he says, reaching for his wallet.

 

“Your wife must be very lucky,” the lady presses.  Clint blinks for a second, but she nods towards his hand.  He hates wearing his wedding band.  He usually doesn’t wear it—he hates how it makes his fingers feel, he hates how he gets it caught on pretty much everything, he hates when he leaves it in the bathroom and Stark or Rogers gives him shit about being a crappy husband—but today’s special.  He got his time-off form signed and stamped six months ago, just for this.  He’s buying goddamn flowers.  The least he can do is wear his ring, too.

 

He presses his thumb against it.  “Husband,” he corrects, figuring it’ll shut her up.

 

Instead, she breaks out into this massive grin.  Last year, they were in Alabama, and the lady at the motel gave them a room with two beds just to prove a point.  He forgets, sometimes, the way New York works.  “Really?” she asks.  “How long?”

 

“How long what?”

 

“How long have you been married?”

 

Clint’s glad that Rogers isn’t there to watch him think about it.  “We were married for about a year and a half,” he replies, shrugging. 

 

He hands her his credit card, but she doesn’t take it.  “Were?” she echoes.

 

“Were.”

 

“Did you—uhm—”  She glances down at the flowers and swallows.  Clint watches her fidget.  “That is—”

 

“I’m widowed.”

 

He says it evenly, nonchalantly, the way people tell you the time or how much they want the Rangers to lose this weekend.  Is it going to rain tomorrow?  No, it’s not, but he’s widowed.

 

The woman finally takes the card.  “I’m very sorry,” she murmurs. 

 

He nods while she runs the charge, hands the card back, and grabs paper to wrap the flowers.  Her head comes up a few times, and she sends him little darting glances when she thinks he’s not looking.  But he is, even when he slides the card back into his wallet.  He’s just a lot better at this than she is.

 

“He loves—loved irises,” Clint says, and he clears his throat a little.  “Our third date was right around this time of year, and ‘cause it was coming up on Easter, they were everywhere.”  He shakes his head.  He can feel her eyes following his every movement.  She’s not subtle at all.  “We went to this botanical garden, and he admitted how crazy he was about the things.  So the next day, I bought him some.”

 

The botanical garden’d been in Chicago, and they’d been following a target, waiting for a hand-off.  Clint’d tried “foreign tourist” but hey, there was a reason Tasha didn’t let him order at Russian restaurants anymore.  In the end, they’d gone with “handsy couple.”

 

Not much of a third date, but Clint learned a long time ago to take what he could get.

 

“Turned into this—tradition.  Irises on his birthday.”

 

The woman stills.  “Today’s—his birthday?” she asks, quietly.

 

“Yeah.”  Clint doesn’t look up at her.  Her hands are older than you’d expect—she’s got dyed hair and careful makeup, but you can always tell from somebody’s hands—and he watches her fingernails curl around the decorative paper.  “First one since . . . ”

 

He shakes his head, a little, and the woman lets out this—sound.  He can’t tell whether it’s sympathetic or surprised, whether she’s trying to repress her own sob or what’s going on, but he just keeps his expression as neutral as he can.  Swallows, takes a breath, and—

 

The bell on the shop door jangles against the glass.

 

“I know you keep trying to make this a surprise, but I didn’t brow-beat Hill into a day off to stand on the sidewalk and wait for you to buy flowers.”

 

The voice—Clint knows that voice.  That voice, along with a body that’d been in a ripped white button-down and a pair of slacks that’d seen a lot better days than the one they’d just been through, it recruited him.  It coaxed him out of the half-dozen hiding spots he’d found at base because his first roommate’d been an asshole.  It yelled at him when he brought Tasha in, and the thanked him for it two weeks later.

 

He’ll never forget that voice.

 

He closes his eyes. “They’re your flowers.”

 

“Funny how I’d rather have you than flowers, right now.”

 

Clint exhales, slowly, and lets his lashes flutter open.  When he does, he sees the woman just—standing there, completely still and staring past him.  “Sorry,” he says, quietly, and forces a little smile.  “If I could just—”

 

“Is—  But you just said—”  One of those wrinkled hands raises and clutches at the cross hanging around her neck.  Her eyes flick toward him, then behind him, and her face starts to pale.  “I thought—”

 

And in that instant, Clint freezes.

 

He freezes, halfway to picking up the bundle of flowers, and his wide eyes watch the woman behind the counter.  Her lips part, and she lets out a little gasp.  Clint knows from experience it’s because the color’s drained out of his face.  He knows that it’s because his hands, they’ve trembled against the counter.

 

His fingers curl into fists and as much as he wants to, as much as he _should_ , he—can’t turn around.  He can’t look behind him.

 

All he can do is murmur, “You can hear him, too?”

 

It takes exactly three seconds for the woman’s eyes to roll back in her head.  She blinks, falters, and then it’s all white.  Clint vaults the counter and lands on the other side before her knees hit the floor.  He catches her, deft as anything, and lowers her down onto the rubbery pad back there.  She’ll come to in a couple minutes—and she’ll probably hate him.

 

When he comes around the counter, Phil’s standing just inside the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest.  “You have to stop doing that,” he says, and Clint can tell he’s trying not to smile.

 

“Why?” he asks, snagging the flowers.

 

“Because you’re not actually widowed?”

 

“Technically, I was.  For, like, ten minutes.”

 

Phil frowns.  “Seven.”

 

“Hey, I round up.”

 

Clint stands there, in his jeans and a black sweater—his street clothes, and how often does he get to wear those on the actual _street_?—while Phil appraises him from head to toe, only _just_ lingering in the middle.  “That,” he comments, “I noticed.”

 

And dammit if Clint doesn’t laugh.  He shouldn’t, he should take it as an affront to his manhood, but he laughs and shoves the flowers at Phil.  “She started it,” he defends when Phil doesn’t immediately take the bouquet.

 

Finally, he sighs and unfolds his arms.  “If it wasn’t my birthday, I’d tell Captain Rogers that you’re out assaulting old ladies again.”

 

“No, you wouldn’t,” Clint retorts, and he steers Phil out of the shop by his hips.


End file.
